Advent Reflection #2

If I’m honest, I didn’t expect my Advent reflection to begin with something being taken from me.

There is a kind of violation in having your car stolen that is hard to put into words. It wasn’t just a vehicle disappearing—it was my sense of safety, my routine, my independence, the familiar rhythm of my days. It was the security I thought I had in my own home. In a single moment, what I relied on was pulled out from under me, and it left me feeling exposed in a way I didn’t choose.

I remember standing there, realizing it was gone.

The shock.

The disbelief.

The sinking heaviness settling into my chest.

The nights of no sleep, waking at 3 a.m. to make sure everything was still okay.

The fear that I’d lose all my things—especially the memories tied to them.

I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t feel prepared. I felt… small. I felt violated. I felt lost. I felt a piece of my connection to Iowa and my former home, being cut violently from my arms.

And yet, this is where Advent begins—

in the small places,

the vulnerable spaces,

the “I can’t do this alone” moments

that force us to stop pretending we can.

In the days that followed, the darkness I felt didn’t stay empty for long. Love came quickly—faster than fear could take root.

It came in the friends who showed up before I even knew what to ask for.

People coordinating rides, rearranging schedules, and refusing to let inconvenience be a barrier.

People offering spare cars or cash just to help me get by.

People who sat with me in the anger and the fear—without trying to fix it—just creating a safe place for me to breathe.

People who offered practical help, emotional grounding, spiritual covering.

The kind of help that humbles you.

The kind that reminds you that community is not a sweet idea—it’s sustenance.

The kind that feels like God whispering, *“I am with you here.”*

I realized something I don’t think I would’ve seen without this happening:

When something is stolen, God doesn’t just restore what was lost—He reveals what was already holding you.

I saw who my people really were.

I saw how deeply I am loved.

I saw how God moves through others long before He fixes the situation itself.

And let me be honest with you:

It’s still not over. They haven’t caught everyone involved, and the one they did catch is still facing trial. It was a financial hit I’m still crawling out of. It was an emotional hit I’m still untangling. It was a violation of my life that I’m still learning how to heal from.

But it taught me so much more than what it took from me.

Advent is the story of light entering places that were never meant to hold darkness forever.

And that is exactly what happened.

The situation didn’t magically resolve overnight. There were still calls to make, reports to file, adjustments to manage. But in the middle of all of that, I felt something stronger than fear: the awareness of being carried.

Not by myself.

Not by my own resilience.

But by the God who shows up through hands that help, voices that comfort, and people who refuse to let the darkness win.

All I did at first was send a text to a handful of friends:

*“Please pray right now. My car was stolen.”*

I couldn’t get myself to say anything else—not between calling police, my family, insurance, and detectives. I didn’t have words. But I knew I needed prayer.

Not just comfort—agreement. Agreement that this wasn’t right, and that God would bring justice, clarity, and peace.

This year, my Advent reflection isn’t about the polished version of hope.

It’s about the gritty kind.

The kind that shows up in the raw places—where things get taken, where uncertainty lingers, where control slips through your fingers and connection becomes your lifeline.

It’s the kind of hope that grows out of moments I would’ve done anything to avoid.

And maybe that’s the point.

The first Advent didn’t begin with calm. It began with disruption, fear, displacement, and the unexpected.

And into *that* space, God came near.

So as I sit in this season of waiting and watching, I’m holding onto what this experience taught me:

That God doesn’t wait for life to be tidy to reveal His presence.

That the darkest moments often uncover the brightest love.

That what feels like loss can become an invitation to witness grace more clearly.

And that even when something is stolen, I am never left empty.

This Advent, my hope is quieter, deeper, steadier—

born not out of everything going right,

but out of knowing I was held when everything went wrong.

And I carry that forward—candle by candle, breath by breath—trusting that the God who met me in this moment will continue to meet me in every moment still coming.